


For I Have Sinned

by Candipeach26



Series: In The Mood [7]
Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Forbidden, Priest Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candipeach26/pseuds/Candipeach26
Summary: Father David Budd struggles with his faith in the wake of a new addition to his parish.





	For I Have Sinned

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so quick and dirty. Woke up needing to write this. No offense meant to any religious faiths. Just your friendly neighborhood smut writer, back at it again. Enjoy.  
-C.

* * *

Forgive me, Father.

For I have sinned.

And will continue to sin.

There is no other way.

\--------

I find myself unable to confess this aloud to You, or to my fellow clergymen. There is much to lose here; judgment to be rendered, punishment to withstand. 

And I deserve every last ounce of it. 

Deserve their wrath, their loss of faith in me. Their desertion.

For I have strayed.

And I cannot return.

\--------

I have been Your ever-faithful servant for years. 

Abandoned the secular life and adopted the priesthood to be closer to Thee. I wanted nothing more than to walk in Your light, humble myself before Your Word, lead Your flock into ever-faithful pastures so that they may know the love of Your salvation.

The parish has flourished beneath my hand as guided by You. Families come, the young, the old, the robust, the infirm. The rich, poor, and all in between. Coming to hear the Word, to be among people of real faith, to listen to a man of God who is pious and true in thought, word, and deed. 

And I’ve been that man. 

I know I am not perfect; that my very existence is borne of a wickedness that I will forever struggle to overcome and that You will forgive me for until my last breath. 

I am mortal, fallible, a weak being made strong by Your guidance. My work is Your work, my words Yours, my divine potential or ultimate ruin in Your hands, Father.

You have spared me.

Every day of my life.

Which is an act of mercy I no longer deserve.

\--------

It is not her fault.

It is not her fault.

**It is not her fault.**

* * *

She did not arrive that day bearing the impression of temptation personified, carrying herself as the jezebels so lustily depicted in the Bible do: all bared bodies and beguiling words and actions meant to lead the weaker men astray.

Her very bearing spoke of an extreme elegance; a rare, regal nature that one could almost mistake as royalty were it not for the conspicuous lack of guards surrounding her person. 

Her features, refined and soft. A heart-shaped face framed by dark, shining curls that meticulously fell just above the pert slope of proudly-held shoulders. Her forehead, broad and smooth. Nose, perfect and small, perched above a pair of beautifully-shaped lips the hue of rich, red wine. 

High cheekbones. Skin like porcelain, pale and flawless, a dimple emerging at the corner of her mouth as I watched her greet a friend, two small frown lines emerging upon her brow as she bowed her head in prayer.

It was her eyes that captured me.

Their dark, their light. Golden amber and glossy forest green mingling in their depths. A fierce intellect, a captivating directness. Her eyes held dimension, hardness and sweetness and warmth and an alluring cool detachment all at once.

On her knees before me.

To drink the wine, taste the body of Christ.

I approach her. Bless her bowed head. Tilt the goblet to those lips, watch her sip. Place the bread upon her tongue. She receives.

And then her eyes flick up to meet mine. 

Suddenly, I am falling. 

Into them. 

Into her.

I am lost.

\--------

She keeps coming back.

\--------

I feel helpless to stop her return. 

To limit our encounters, or pass her off to another, or tell her that the words I share with her are but a mere fraction of what I yearn to share.

She’s a politician. Strong-willed, talented, on the rise.

Married for only five years. I see her husband come once, a tall, rather stiff bloke who looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else than in the hushed, damp confines of the church. 

She walks in, holding his hand.

They depart separately, ten minutes apart. 

He leaves first.

She stays behind.

\--------

There is no confession booth.

We sit in a pew, every Friday afternoon. 

Exchange our niceties.

Then face forward, watching the candles dance upon the altar.

And talk.

Beneath the eye of the Son, who hangs on the cross, arms spread, head bowed with enduring humility.

\--------

She speaks.

Of a childhood where the seed of the Lord was sewn into her being. Her first and only nanny, a former nun who instilled the religion into a young, easily led mind. Sometimes by force, but she comes to find comfort in its refuge.

Of an absentee father, a mother who became stricter and more distant in the wake of his departure.

Of growing up perfect, of bearing the burden to live up to a mother who’d achieved much and expected so much more. 

Of a spacious, sprawling mansion devoid of love but full of secrets. Of the ways wealth could poison a family, divorce a person from reality, cause conflict in ways that invited suffering like none other.

Of Roger. 

Of him being her first. 

Being the man whom her mother despised. His class was low, his ambitions high. They matched each other in smarts, in temperament. He makes her laugh.

He also makes her cry.

But one doesn’t just throw away twenty years of commitment. Nor five years of marriage, no matter how frayed it’s becoming at the seams.

\--------

So she comes to me because she wants to stay.

And I go to her because I want to _live_.

\--------

In those eyes.

In those afternoons we share together, the last golden rays of sun shining through stained glass, illuminating her shining hair.

In the way her thigh brushes against mine as we shift position and get more comfortable, day turning to night as we talk.

In the way she bites the corner of her lip as she’s about to head into a painful memory.

Or the quiet wisp of a sigh she emits as I make a point clear to her.

Or the way her delicate hands move as she’s clarifying a stance, fingers long and elegant, her rich, soft voice echoing off the stone walls.

I want to live in the gentle look she gives me as she departs for the evening, ever apologetic for taking up my afternoon, the warmth and gratitude in her eyes causing my breath to catch every single time.

\--------

And somewhere, somehow, the distance closes between us.

\--------

I kiss her.

Or she kisses me.

A night, later than usual. Darker than usual.

And we’re alone.

And I make the colossal mistake of turning to her to speak. Getting lost in those eyes, unable to find my way out.

My words, all but gone as I stare at her. Unable to look away.

She’s close.

And coming closer.

Before I could stop myself, I meet her halfway.

Cover her mouth with my own.

Her lips are impossibly tender, sweet. 

Soft beneath mine.

I’m reeling, flushed from head to toe. Every single sense screaming inside even as I raise a shaky hand to frame her perfect face, feel the silk of her curls caress the back of my hand as she tilts her head and commands my surrender.

\--------

I pray for hours that night.

\--------

Lie awake until the barest edges of dawn begin to manifest. Punish myself for such an awful dereliction of duty. Chastising every last minute of our encounter up until the second my eyes finally drift shut.

And still dream of her.

\--------

Of my hands at her wrists. Holding her down.

My mouth at her neck. Hot, sloppy, demanding. 

Marking her.

She’s whispering to me. 

Whispering my name.

Drawing me away from You. 

Inviting me into her.

\--------

We do more of this.

We sin.

And it feels so good.

* * *

We make love for the first time.

\--------

I’d locked every door. Lit every candle at the altar.

Let her in from the rain, those beautiful eyes alight with barely-masked desire.

We continue to make the pretense of talking, of asking about the week. Playing our obligatory roles to perfection: the dutiful shepherd, the faithful sheep.

And she makes the first move that night.

Sliding a casual hand onto my thigh. Her palm burning the flesh beneath.

I feel my eyes go heavy, drunk with her touch already. 

Content to let it linger for a moment as I watch her mouth move, watch her tongue dart out between straight, even teeth as she talks, the words dissolving into nonsense as the blood rushes through my veins.

I want her.

Now.

And there is no more pretense as I dive for her mouth eagerly, go straight for those crimson lips I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of for weeks now.

\--------

She’s taught me so much in so little time. 

How to tease her. How to draw her bottom lip between my own, tug on it ever so gently, nip at her just a little before drawing back and tilting my head opposite hers. 

How to capture her mouth fully, go deeper with my devouring, taste her with utter abandon.

How to slip my tongue inside. 

How to let it jostle gently with hers. How to let it slide, and parry, and thrust wetly, and tantalize, and retreat. How to let hers do the same. 

When to relax, and when to demand.

When to relent, and when to assault.

\--------

And she’s in my lap now. 

Drawn there by our battle of wills, of our mouths battling for lush supremacy. She wears skirts and dresses when she comes to see me, loose ones that fold and swish and mold themselves to her shape, that slide up when she adjusts her posture in the pew. 

That willingly part when she sits astride me, bare thighs straddling my waist.

\--------

I can feel her heat. 

Lord help me.

\--------

And what was a kiss becomes a caress. 

What were hands that stayed strictly above the shoulders begin to drift downwards, guided by her murmuring voice, setting the trance.

_You can touch me. _

_Anywhere._

_Everywhere._

_\--------_

My hands are beneath her skirt.

Her hands are at my collar. Unbuttoning it, sliding it aside. Parting my shirt. Lips at my neck as I push up blindly at that heat, palm the naked, warm globes of her bottom and press her into me.

The pew creaks as she raises herself up. Unbuttons her blouse. Parts it to reveal soft, beautiful breasts, all full and pale and peaked with rose. My mouth waters as she watches me from beneath her lashes, watches me lean forward to sample her bosoms hungrily, licking and suckling eagerly. 

Insatiable.

\--------

_Mmmm_.

She hums, pulling away.

My mouth chases her nipple.

I look up at her, desperately wanting more.

Pleading.

Praying.

\--------

And she answers.

Her fingers, going to the button of my trousers.

Then the zipper.

Undoing me.

Pulling me out.

Appraising me silently, soft smile in place as her eyes flick up to mine.

Her hand, grasping me at the hilt. Pulling up slowly.

My eyes roll back and close. 

She slips her hand back down. Then up again. 

Down, up.

Faster.

Breathing becomes near impossible, the torture of her hand stroking me causing sparks to flare beneath my eyelids. I flush, sweat. Shake beneath her touch.

Moan her name.

God, it’s_ incredible._

_\--------_

I barely realize when she stops.

Stands.

Her fingers disappearing beneath soft panels of silk. Her panties, removed.

She climbs astride me, and sinks all the way down.

Her eyes on mine.

Daring me to look away.

\--------

I _can’t._

I _can’t,_ with her.

I _can’t_ be faithful to anything else.

\--------

Not with those beautiful hazel eyes boring into mine as we fuck, as she rides me hard, her lush wet heat all over my straining cock, her curls all wild and untamed, falling over her shoulders as her head falls back and she moans every single curse word I’ve ever sworn to forsake. 

Not with those full, sweet breasts beckoning my mouth still, bouncing sensually each and every time she falls upon my shaft, my lips finally capturing a nipple and sucking hard as my hands guide her hips and I thrust up into her tight sheath, squeezing me like a fist, supple and slick, heaven itself lying in grandeur between her powerful, trembling thighs.

Not with her fingers, tugging at my curls. Slipping down to my chest, carding through the dark hair there, a hand at my heart as she grinds me slow now, feeling me get close, wanting it to last.

\--------

I _can’t_.

I’m panting, sweating, shaking from the task of holding back for her.

And she takes my hand. Guides it between us. Places my fingers upon a small, swollen nub within her sex. Moves her hips in circles, pressing against my hand until I get the hint and begin to rub. 

She nods, pleased. 

And I’m fully a disciple of her pleasure.

* * *

When she comes, it’s with a long, shuddering sigh.

When I come, I cry out her name.

I feel her small, secret smile against my neck.

\--------

She holds me close.

The candles burn.

And Jesus looks down upon us.


End file.
